From the
Japan Weekly Mail
“The Opening
of the Rebuilt Ichimura-za, Tokyo, 1888”
Introduction by
Samuel L. Leiter
They
offer a fascinating view of how Westerners viewed or thought about kabuki at a
time when no scholarly work was available to explain it to them. The mistakes
abound, of course, but nothing else comes quite so close as do many of these
essays to recreating what it was like to be a foreign theatregoer seeing kabuki
in the days when you had to sit on tatami mats, squeezed in with four or five
others, eating, drinking, and smoking within a tiny box which could only be
accessed by balancing along narrow wooden shafts separating one box from another.
Because
of their scarcity and difficulty of access, not to mention concerns about the
book’s length, I chose to omit newspaper articles, most of them not
particularly useful anyway.
There
were several English-language newspapers available in Meiji Japan. Among them
was the Japan Weekly Mail,
A Political, Commercial, and Literary Journal. It was the weekly version of the Japan Mail, founded in Yokohoma in
1870, and said to be the most widely read such paper in Asia. It was a
forerunner of the still publishing Japan Times. Fortunately, a good number of its archives are online, although not
always easy to use.
One
of the more valuable pieces is this one, from the Japan Weekly Mail, January 14, 1888, describing the reopening that year of Tokyo’s
Ichimura-za, one of the three major venues formerly called the Edo Sanza (Edo’s
Three Theatres), the others being the Nakamura-za and the Morita-za (renamed
the Shintomi-za in 1875). The original title is simply “Ichimura.”
Its
anonymous author has no fondness for the simple, essentially unadorned,
traditional kabuki theatre’s appearance, although certain other foreigners of
the day were more admiring. Most significant to the writer was the presence of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX (1838-1903), the leading star, whom many Westerners
considered not only a great actor, but one of the greatest in the world. Writer
after writer compared him to England’s foremost actor, Sir Henry Irving, a
comparison I wrote of in detail many years ago before I’d even read these
accounts. Danjūrō’s presence was so significant that a sizable contingent of invited
government officials showed up for the occasion.
Of
unusual interest is the article’s moralistic tone, especially with regard to
the writer’s belief that Danjūrō, brilliant as he was in straight drama, was
demeaning himself by dancing a piece he calls Sanba, which would be Sanbasō. There were several variants of this
auspicious dance, which originated in the ritualistic proto-nō piece called Okina. They were always performed at the opening
ceremonies of kabuki theatres. This one was produced under the ceremonial title
Shin Kaijō Umeda Kamigaki.
It
also notes the presence of electric lighting, although the first Tokyo theatre
generally said to have used electricity, for arc lighting, was the Chitose-za,
a year earlier. Since the writer mentions “an electric light” in the singular,
it, too, is likely to have been an arc.
The
article gives a good idea of what it was like to be there on this occasion. The
unnamed play was Kawatake Mokuami’s Kaikei Genji Yuki no Shirahata, newly written for this production. It was
a two-act “living history” (katsureki)
play. Nakamura Fukusuke IV (later Shikan V and Utaemon V, the foremost onnagata of the pre-World War II years) was
Yoshitsune.
On Tuesday afternoon an interesting
reunion of Japanese and foreigners took place at the Ichimura Theatre, Asakusa.
This is one of the oldest theatres in Tōkyō. Its remote and inconvenient
position, miles away from the centre of the metropolis, may probably be taken
as an indication of the low esteem in which the histrionic art was held by the
Japanese of former days. Neither is the penalty of distance compensated by
immunity from fire. Quite recently the Ichimuraza was burned to the ground. Its
restoration and reopening were the occasion of the ceremony of Tuesday. No
doubt there was a strong desire to mark the newly recognised status of the
drama by a corresponding departure from the antiquated fashion of a wooden
shanty, wholly without comforts or adornments, But an equally antiquated
trouble strangled these aspirations in the cradle—funds failed. The theatre was
therefore reconstructed on the old lines, which statement will be understood by
our readers to exonerate us from any detailed description of architectural
features or internal fittings. The former are very ugly; the latter,
proportionately rude. A brave attempt was made, however, to embellish the
approaches. Arches of greenery and festoons of many-coloured lanterns diverted
the gaze from less pleasing objects of contemplation. Nor should we forget to
note that the theatre is supplied with an electric light—emblematic, may we be
permitted to say, of much that one witnesses now-a-days in Japan; the sparkle
of modern progress amid the sombreness of archaic surroundings.
To the embarrassed and temporarily
crippled condition of its much larger sister, Shintomiza, the Asakusa theatre
owed the good fortune of being able to enlist the services of the great actor
ICHIKAWA DANJURO. And to DANJURO'S cöoperation is probably due the new
departure made at the opening ceremony on Tuesday—all the foreign officials and
foreign employés of the Japanese Government were invited to be present, and a
large number availed themselves of the invitation. The whole of the gallery
directly facing the stage was prepared for their accommodation. This part of
the theatre corresponds to the “Gods” in English parlance. Its disadvantages in
respect of hearing being of small importance to persons who cannot understand
though they hear, it was doubtless chosen for the foreign audience on account
of its commanding view of the stage. The invitations were issued for two
o'clock, but nearly two hours elapsed before the performance began. The ennui
of long waiting was, however, relieved by the strains of two military hands,
one on either side of the stage, which played alternately with admirable taste
and execution. There is no good wholly unmixed. We ourselves cannot have a
second opinion as to the rashness of prefacing the recitative of a Japanese
orchestra by a full concert of Western wind instruments. When the swelling
cadence of the latter was suddenly succeeded by the reedy flutes, shallow
drums, and unearthly falsetto of the former, it was impossible to compare the
two with becoming gravity. Was the contrast intentionally contrived? Scarcely,
we think. Its effect, however, cannot have failed to impress the Japanese
audience, but whether in a radical or a conservative sense, who shall say?
Those of our readers who
are familiar with the ways of Japanese theatres, will be prepared to learn that
the performance commenced with the well-known dance of the Samba. Let us not
omit, however, to note that this was preceded by a parade of the whole company
of actors. They came upon the stage dressed in swallow-tails, self-possessed
and free from gaucherie, as Japanese invariably are, but not much less puzzled
to dispose of their hands conveniently than Europeans would have been under
more favourable circumstances. At their head was ICHIKAWA DANJURO himself. He
read, with his usual perfect elocution, a short address thanking the audience
for their attendance, and commenting in well-chosen terms on the immensely
improved status of the Japanese stage and the Japanese actor in recent years.
The next time the spectators saw DANJURO, he was posturing and capering as
SENZAI in the Samba dance. Here was another startling contrast. The moral it
suggested was that no efforts to elevate the position of the Japanese actor can
be thoroughly successful until he himself acquires a true sense of the dignity
of his art.
It will of course be urged that dancing in Japan is not as dancing in Europe or America. Perhaps not. There may be less degradation in waving one’s hands and swaying one's body than in cutting a double shuffle or pirouetting on the points of one's toes. But both are purely physical exercises, demanding no moral effort whatsoever, and utterly unworthy of such an actor as DANJURO. The stage in Japan must remain where it is until it raises itself. Our readers will scarcely credit us when we say that on the day preceding that of which we write, many of the leading Japanese residents of Tōkyō, being invited to the theatre, presented handsome pecuniary douceurs to the actors, which were gratefully and humbly accepted. While such humiliation is submitted to, the old-time opprobrium can never be removed,
How easily one forgot to moralize, however, when DANJURO came upon the stage in the character of Yoritomo. The meeting of the BAYARD of Japanese history, YOSHITSUNE, and his elder brother YORITOMO, after the latter has gained his first great victory over the Heike forces, is a favourite scene in the histrionic repertoire of Japan. Yet it owes its whole interest to association. In the scene itself there is not so much as one striking situation, or one bit of stirring action. The brothers have not met since as children they were separated by the orders of their father’s conqueror, KYOMORI. YOSHITSUNE has been living under the protection of HIDEHIRA, chief of Oshú; YORITOMO, in exile in Suruga. After years of waiting and planning, the latter at length raises his standard—the “snow-white pennon”—and defeats the troops sent against him by a vassal of KYOMORI [sic]. YOSHITSUNE, hearing that swords are unsheathed, rides in hot haste from Oshú, in defiance of HIDEHIRA'S injunctions, and, arriving at the camp of Uki-no-shima, among the plains and vallies [sic] of Fujisan’s southern slope, succeeds with some difficulty in procuring audience of his brother. The meeting of the two men is the scene represented. They do not run into each other's arms or clasp fervent hands after the fashion of the West. YORITOMO sits impassive, imperturbable, at the head of his chief captains. YOSHITSUNE, carefully observing all the minutiae of cold etiquette, bows his way to a seat, three paces from his brother's dais. Only when the young man’s likeness to his father recalls some memory of the past, does YORITOMO falter, and for a moment the two brothers, gazing into one another's eyes, forget that they are soldiers. A slight touch of nature in truth, but incredibly magnified and accentuated by the unbending sternness of its circumstances. Then the captains introduce themselves to the new-comer; by their desire he is appointed to the command of the van; and Yoritomo tells him that they shall not meet again until the overthrow of the House of TAIRA is accomplished. Of such simple materials is the scene constructed. To an audience familiar with the subsequent history of the two brothers, there cannot but be elements of deep pathos in a representation recalling so much that can never be forgotten as long as Japan has a history. Yet it would be difficult to place upon the stage any piece less calculated to appeal to vulgar taste.
There followed a dance exceedingly graceful and picturesque. Performed by a number of lads, sons of actors, and combining characteristics of the Mai and the No, it enjoyed the distinction of being a novelty in old garments, Of course we need not attempt to describe it. The beauty of such things—and it was both beautiful and artistic—depends upon situations that cannot be portrayed in speech. The whole affair partook somewhat of the nature of a revival. It was permeated by an atmosphere of antiquity, seen through which the parade in swallow-tails and the brass bands receded to the end of a long, long vista. Would it be better that they should remain there permanently? Let others answer the knotty question. For us it is enough that we were privileged to witness a performance which we recommend our readers to see as soon as possible.
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